


Only Light

by alchemystique



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Killian is on a quest to save his betrothed, stolen away in the night by a foe unknown to him. When he crosses paths with a woman who seems to believe she may be of some help, he takes up a reluctant partnership with her. But there is more to her than meets the eye, and there are beasts in the night who find his continued existence…disheartening. Swept into a battle he never intended to be a part of, will he discover the true identity of his companion in time to save the woman he is to wed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_  
_

> _“Never put your faith in a Prince. When you require a miracle, trust in a Witch.” **  
> **_
> 
> _―[Catherynne M. Valente](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/338705.Catherynne_M_Valente)_

  


The pub was dank and dark, the men around them cackling and arguing and showing a general lack of any form at all, let along the good, and Killian was trying his hardest not to show exactly how uncomfortable the tableau made him.

But perhaps he should begin at the beginning.

Once upon a time, there was a young princeling. Second in line in a succession that should never have been his to begin with, the prince (though he was not a prince yet - that would come later) grew up working hard and scrounging for scraps with only his elder brother to take care of him. 

War ravaged the kingdom, and Killian and Liam Jones fought for their King, unaware of the monster they pledged their fealty to, until the day he sent them on a mission they would not come back entirely whole from.

The biggest miracle of it was that they came back at all.

They came home with news of the dishonorable methods the King would use to win this war, and through a series of unforeseeable circumstances the king was deposed, his family slaughtered by an angry mob, his head set upon a pike for all to see, his castle sieged by the people he had once served. 

And then, of course, came the realization that the line of kings was dead, no royal left to take the throne.

Raised up from their humble beginnings, heroes of war, the saviors of the people, a new line was proposed despite the protest of the Jones brothers, who had only ever meant to be good, honorable men. 

Unconventional, perhaps, but without a leader the people were lost, and in the end Liam Jones took the crown and the throne with all the grace of a man who did not particularly want it, but understood the need for it.

Years passed peacefully, and for a while it seemed as though the kingdom might do well for themselves. Surrounding monarchs treated with them, they opened trade routes long lost to them, and when Liam Jones married a princess of a little kingdom to the south, there was hardly any fuss at all over the blue of his blood or the green of his rule, and soon thereafter his young brother found himself contracted to marry a young princess in the kingdom of Corona. 

Unbeknownst to the newly married King Liam, and the betrothed prince, an enemy grew from the north, a king beholden to a beast of whispered renown, the beast a man displeased with the state of the fiefdom and the usurpation of a crown he had worked long and hard to have fall into the right hands, a man whose plans for Misthaven had certainly never foreseen a coup when he’d plotted and dealed his way to what he wanted.

The beautiful, kind princess of Corona was stolen away in the dead of night, no note left behind, no ransom to speak of, just a lock of blonde hair left on a pillow and a mystery to solve.

Which brought them, more or less, to today, to this torchlit, seedy bar nestled below a cliffside, where soldiers and pirates and merchants alike took their rest and where Killian Jones, prince in disguise, worked hard not to wrinkle his nose in distaste as a squat man in grimy clothing lumbered past him, knocking against his shoulder without so much as a glance in his direction.

“You want I should smash his head in, milord?” 

Killian shot a warning glance in his companions direction, rolling his eyes at the assumed dialect of the man. “Leave it be, Roland. And must I remind you _again_ \- I am no one’s lord here.”

“Apologies,” the lad said, his fingers slowly unravelling from the hilt of the dagger tucked into the worn leather of his belt, his speech patterns returning to their normal cadence. “It’s easy to forget, sometimes.”

It shouldn’t have been. Roland had come to know Killian long before he’d been anything but an orphan boy with dreams of a hero’s quest, working as a cabin boy on Killian’s very first voyage out to sea. He’d become a trusted friend, a confidante, and he’d been the first man to kneel before Killian and pledge his sword.

Killian ignored a small commotion across the room, eyeing the questionable stew placed before him as a clang of metal against wood and the sound of breaking pottery assailed his ears.

“Roland, my friend, eat your food and calm your mind. We are but strangers passing through.”

“Every man here could be an enemy of the crown, my - sir. Someone has to watch your arse.”

“I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on my own backside, thank you very much.”

Roland seemed unconvinced, but let his wandering eye settle on the bowl of stew before him. “The cuisine here makes me long for Starkey’s galley grub.”

Killian let loose an amused chuckle. “The years have hazed your memories, if you imagine _this_ to be worse than that abomination he called sustenance.”

Roland picked at the lumpy bread set beside the bowl, clearing his throat carefully before he leaned in towards Killian.

“It may interest you and your carefully watched arse to know you have caught the attention of the rabble. Don’t _look_ , bloody hell.” Killian snapped his gaze back to Roland. “Perhaps we should have travelled another day longer.”

“With what rations?”

“Sir, don’t misunderstand my tone, but it’s not _my_ damn fault you took off in the middle of the night, half-cocked and hell bent on getting yourself  killed and no one to even know where you’d gone.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” He pointed a mildly accusing finger his companions way.

“Not that you intended it so. Sir.”

Any further line of that particular conversation was put to an end as a barmaid appeared at Killian’s side, sliding a pewter mug across to him, liquid sloshing over the side and onto the grimy table. “Compliments of an admirer,” she told him on a soft smile, and Killian watched her leave with a wistful grin, hazy memories of his mother following in her wake.

They ate in silence for a while, Roland reluctantly soaking up broth with his bread while Killian spooned out an approximation of meat from his bowl, searching in vain for something resembling a vegetable.

He reached for the mug without thought, some time later, and so was quite surprised to find it being yanked from his grasp with some force by a hand he’d had no recollection of being so close to him.

“ _Don’t drink that._ ”

Roland was on his feet in the blink of an eye, hand reaching for his belt, gaze ablaze with the kind of hopelessly courageous look Killian could remember all too well. Martydom was a contagious trait, it seemed.

The voice was that of a woman, and as she stood toe to toe with Killian’s most loyal knight and oldest friend, he could see her own hand slide into the depths of her cloak.

“Make another move and I’ll detach your arm from your body.”

Underneath the cowl which hid most of her face, Killian watched the shadows dance as the corners of her mouth twitched up into a grin, her gaze hidden from view but her attention focused merrily on Roland.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Do you have any idea who you -.”

“ _Roland_ ,” Killian hissed, as a group of men turned their gaze towards them. “Keep your voice down.”

“Yes, _Roland_. Wouldn’t want these ruffians to know they’re in the company of a prince.” There was something almost musical in the lilt of her tone, the voice pitched high, as though her amusement could not quite be contained.

Killian’s fingers twitched towards his own belt as the woman slid her hand free from her cloak, producing between two pinched fingers a small coin purse, one that looked _remarkably_ like his own.

The purse jangled as it hit the table before him. “You should keep a better eye on your possessions.”

The purse was, in fact, his own, the one that had been tied to his belt not long before. “How -.”

“Slimy little rat off in the corner, one of Blackbeard’s roaches. People around these parts have particularly clever fingers.” From beneath the depths of her robes she produced a dagger, almost identical to the one Killian had gifted Roland after Liam’s coronation.

Her grin widened as she held it out, hilt first, to Roland, who grasped at thin air for his own dagger before realizing what she meant by handing him the weapon. Apparently she included herself in those with masterful pick pocketing skills. 

“You’d think the two of you would be a bit more suspicious of the common folk, but I suppose you’ve been locked away in a castle for long enough now to have gone a bit soft.”

“Who are you? How do you know who we are?”

Her head snapped to look at him, and in the dim light he caught sight of the blaze of her eyes. “Not _here_.”

“And why should we trust -.”

“You’ve just had your money and your weapons stolen, someone has tried to poison you, and you’re wondering if _I’m_ the one you shouldn’t trust?”

Killian watched as the woman overturned the mug of ale the barmaid had left him, the honey colored liquid puddling on the floor below her feet. 

“If you two are idiotic enough to continue this quest of yours, and you have any hope of not dying, finish your meals, _don’t drink anything_ , and meet me _here_ in an hour.” She slid a small bit of parchment across the table to Killian, who watched as Roland snatched the paper from the table with a glare. 

“And if we don’t?”

She shrugged. “Your funeral.”

She swirled away from them, the heavy wool of her cloak sliding across his shoulder as she swept past, and by the time Killian turned to watch her go she was gone, lost in the swirl of the crowd.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Roland had already crumple the parchment in his hand, and stood still and silent, quietly checking his weapons. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Roland.”

“Sir.”

“She could help us.”

“She could also murder you in your sleep. We don’t even know who she is.”

“But she knew us. And yet here we are, undiscovered, our belongings returned to us.”

Roland, for his part, had always understood when he would not win a battle against the stubborn, hard headed sailor Killian had always been at heart. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed, pressing out the paper he’d crushed not a few moments earlier. 

“Mark my words, this is a bad idea.”

“Duly noted.”


	2. Chapter 2

  


  


  


> _“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”  
>  ― [J.M. Barrie](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5255014.J_M_Barrie)_  
> 

Their destination, as it happened was an abandoned book shop on the outskirts of town. The wind whipped Killian’s hair about, his cloak billowing out behind him as waves crashed offshore not terribly far below them.

Roland muttered something about bad omens that Killian soundly ignored as he pressed his face against the glass of the boarded over door.

“I don’t suppose you’ve read her instructions wrong, hm?” 

“As much as I wish I had? Decidedly _not_.”

“Well we can’t just stand around like idiots, Roland. You’re my brawn in this endeavor. Break a window, or something else equally brutish. Perhaps you could kick the door in. I’ve heard tell such a thing is quite invigorating.”

“Do it yourself.”

“As your _prince_ -.”

Roland grinned, rocking back on his heels as he held up a finger. “Ah. But you’re not, are you? _Killian_.”

This, of course, led to a squabble in the middle of the street, where anyone could see, though luck seemed to be on their side, for even so early in the night there was nary a soul to be found on this side of town, which seemed to be lined with mostly abandoned buildings, decrepit and falling to pieces. 

Perhaps they should have suspected something nefarious, but they were far too busy arguing like children.

Killian had Roland in a headlock when they both heard the disapproving hiss, and both turned to find the source of the noise, but too late.

He felt the pull at his navel as the street vanished from view, and a moment later stumbled into heavy darkness, unable to decipher where, exactly he was, or what had happened.

As he turned blindly, his boot made contact with something soft, and a groan drifted up from the floor.

He’d dropped Roland, it seemed.

“What in _hellfire_ -?”

A flame flickered to life a handful of steps away, glowing in the gloom, and as Killian’s eyes adjusted he thought, for a moment, the flame was housed between a pair of floating, leathery hands.

And then a body followed the gloved hands into the light.

“I’m already regretting saving your skins.”

From somewhere to his left, Roland grunted, heaving himself up off the ground. “Just because you say something was poisoned doesn’t make it _true_ ,” he countered, still crouched as though he was in pain.

Her head snapped to stare at Roland, the cowl of her cloak falling to her shoulders as she did so. “Perhaps you’d like to return to the inn and test the puddle soaking into the floorboards?”

Her voice was that same eerily high pitched keen, and the words sent a chill down Killian’s spine, perhaps more to do with her unintended unveiling than anything else.

She had once, perhaps, been a great beauty - there was a flirtatious curve to her lip, and her cheekbones were high and curved, her eyes wide and glimmering against the candlelight, the lashes long and feathering against her skin.

The effect was somewhat dimmed by the pale, almost scalelike quality to her skin, and he was reminded, for a moment, as he stared at her flesh (if it could be called such) and the way it glittered in the flickering flame, of a tale he’d heard as a boy, of a dragon left locked away beneath the mountains for a thousand years.

Likely, she was far more dangerous than any dragon could rightly claim. 

He could see now that her gloved hands held the flame, hovering above her fingers and swaying steadily, and as his eyes continued to become used to the light, he caught a glimpse of the street outside the bookshop, where only moments before Killian and Roland had been bickering.

He caught her amusement as his eyes widened in understanding. “Bravo, young prince,” she said, watching him intently as he fumbled backwards, away from her. “Figured it out, have you?”

“Roland, we must go.” He ignored her completely, grasping blindly behind him for an appendage he could use to drag his friend away. Kicking out a door was becoming a distinct possibility.

His friend, however, gave him a sour look. “You’re the idiot who wanted to meet her here in the first place.”

“Roland-.”

“Go. Stay. Makes no difference to me.” She was watching them with a practiced look of disinterest, and despite the voice in his head telling him to run, he paused, studying the careful way she held herself, the tension she held in her shoulders despite the words she tossed carelessly about.

“Then why intervene at all? If what you say is true, I’d be dead on the floor of a dirty pub if not for your interruption.”

“I was bored.” Her voice dropped over the words, some of her disaffected tone leaving her, but it didn’t take a man of great intelligence to realize there was more to her story than mere tedium.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing you can offer me, just yet,” came the cryptic response, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

**_All magic comes with a price._ **

It was a warning he and his brother would have done well to heed, many years ago - the reason Liam had been so quick to marry, the reason Killian’s succession to the throne had been so clearly laid out upon Liam accepting the crown.

“I want none of your deals, witch.”

“Not even to save your _one true love_?”

This gave Killian pause.

It was less the fact that she knew his mission (he’d heard tell of the kind of sorceress who knew more than any mortal had the right to know, heard tales of a power beyond knowing), and more the inflection she put on the words. There was something she didn’t want them to know, some reason she’d gleaned their quest and set upon helping them.

“What do you know about that?”

Her eyes flashed in the darkness, the firelight reflecting in her gaze, and he felt frozen in place. “Enough. How news of the abduction of your soon-to-be bride hasn’t swept the countryside, I can’t be sure, but it’s not a complete secret. Though the whispers of your disappearance have been carefully swept under the proverbial rug.”

He’d been gone a fortnight, by now, racing across the countryside and trying to keep his actions unremarkable in an attempt to find any information he could about the enemies of the crown. It was the first time he’d had a chance to even wonder what Liam was thinking. 

His brother would likely poison Killian himself, once he returned.

There was a certain irony in the thought he didn’t let himself linger on too long.

“And how do you propose to assist us, witch?”

The bite behind his words seemed to have little effect on the woman. “I know where she’s been taken. I’m fairly certain that’s knowledge you have yet to possess.”

“And why should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” she acknowledged of Roland’s question. “But what other option do you have?”

\------

The horses found her presence unsettling, but she soon won them over, his own mare making quick work of the handful of grains she offered Jolly, and Roland’s mount quickly grew jealous enough to forget his discomfort and buck for attention himself.

It was strange, but already Killian felt his distrust eeking away, and no matter how hard he tried to grasp at it it seemed to slip from his fingertips like sand. He wondered at her powers, wondered if perhaps she’d bewitched them, somehow, but dashed that thought away in a hurry - Roland had done nothing but grumble and complain the entire trek back to the stables. 

She’d convinced them both to find other accommodations, and with the threat of Killian’s life hanging over their heads they’d agreed without too much fuss - now the question was where she would convince them to go. 

“There’s a cottage not far from here. Certainly nothing fit to entertain royalty, no featherbeds or gold adornments, but if you mean to keep a low profile it will suit you for the night.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about me - you must be aware I’ve spent most of my life without the accoutrements of the wealthy.”

“It’s easy to forget, once you grow used to being pampered.”

“ _Not_ for me.” Killian could not explain exactly why he was so adamant on this point - why he needed her to know he’d not forgotten his humble beginnings. It seemed important for her to understand him as she watched him with judgmental eyes. 

Roland coughed, and Killian blinked, having completely forgotten the presence of his friend in the stables beside him. “And how, exactly, do you plan to keep up with us?” He glanced around the stables, noting the distinct lack of transportation for herself.

She grinned, genuine amusement lighting her face, waggling her gloved fingers, and for a moment the dark facade fell away, and Killian was left confused by the sudden flush of color to his face. “If you’ll recall, I happen to be a _witch_.” Her lip quirked again as she shot an amused, mocking look Killian’s way. “I have business to attend to in town. I’ll meet you at the cottage in an hour.”

She vanished into a plume of grey smoke, and Killian chanced a glance back at Roland, who was looking at him as though contemplating all the best ways to murder him. 

“When you die a horrible and bloody death, I’ll be sure to tell your brother exactly how many times I told you this was a terrible idea.”

“Your faith in me is humbling, my friend.”

Roland did little more than roll his eyes as he led the horses from the stables.

\------

The cottage was indeed quite small, but there was already a warm fire blazing when they arrived, and their new guide had shed her heavy cloak. Killian studied her as Roland followed him through the doorway, taking in the dark tunic and the blood red vest she wore over it, the sleek line of her black leather trousers, the heavy clack of her boots as she strode towards them across the scant space of the cottage.

“You didn’t run into any trouble?”

“I think you’ve provided us enough trouble for a least a full moon,” Roland cut back. 

She did little more than roll her eyes, turning her gaze to Killian, and he felt color rising in his cheeks as he realized quite how long he’d been staring. 

The excuses were there, in the back of his mind. Confusion, at such a woman wanting to help him; his own insatiable curiosity at a puzzle he couldn’t solve. She was a conundrum, all hard lines and cold stares, and yet she’d never actually struck a deal in exchange for her help. It had struck Killian as odd, and continued to hold court at the back of his mind. Surely she wanted something from him. There had to be an ulterior motive.

“There’ll be enough trouble to last a lifetime, where we’re headed,” she finally told them, and Killian chanced another look at her, to find her studying him carefully. 

“And where is that, exactly?”

“A very old, very dangerous place.”

“The trust thing goes both ways, you know.” He spoke the words without thought, and watched as something like surprise lit her features. 

Her fingers drummed against the small table that stood between them, and his gaze flickered to her hands, now free of the leather gloves she had been wearing since they first met. 

It wasn’t difficult to see why. The same scale-like quality marred the long fingers of her hands - that alone would have set her apart from any mysterious stranger in a crowd. This was quite obviously not a new condition - she’d learned to adapt to it, to hide herself from discovery. 

“The land we seek is called Camelot.” The name rolled off her tongue like a curse. “And your enemies there are great in number.”

“I’ve never even heard of it,” Roland challenged. “How can they possibly be enemies of Misthaven?”

“Because you have something they want.”

“And what is that?”

Killian watched the way her head tilted, almost childlike, if not for the seriousness of her gaze. “Why, _Misthaven_ , of course.”  



End file.
